


Exhiliration is the Breeze

by Stephquiem



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe, Based on Pray for Us Icarus by Atalan, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is Human (?), M/M, Non-graphic depictions of illness, Pining, Reincarnation, fanfic of a fanfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-26
Updated: 2020-06-26
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:06:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24878917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stephquiem/pseuds/Stephquiem
Summary: Crowley couldn't say what drew him to the Englishman who arrived in his small Sicilian village--whether it was the novelty of a stranger who lingered so long, or the vanity of catching someone like that's interest, or the mystery of why he looks so sad, and so expectant, when he sees Crowley. Whatever the case, and whatever comes, he can't quite regret letting curiosity take hold.--Based on Atalan'sPray for Us, Icarusseries. Snapshots of Crowley's lives, from his perspective.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 74





	Exhiliration is the Breeze

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Atalan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atalan/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Like A Sunless Garden](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20310283) by [Atalan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atalan/pseuds/Atalan). 



> So, several months ago now, I read this series, and then wasn't able to get it out of my head, because I've read it several times and then I was possessed by the spirit of this fic until I got it out of my system. I didn't think my first foray in Good Omens fanfiction-writing would be a fanfic of a fanfic, but here we are. I hope you like it.

_Sicily, 1692_

Crowley couldn't say what precisely drew him to the Englishman. Perhaps it was the novelty--they didn't get many visitors, at least none who lingered quite so long with no apparent connection to their small Sicilian village. Perhaps it was vanity--the man certainly seemed drawn to _Crowley,_ or at least, he appeared in the market every week without fail to buy his wisteria blossoms, and if Crowley couldn't help but notice that he didn't patronize other vendors with quite such frequency, well, who could really blame him?

And if the way Aziraphale looked at him sometimes--expectant and sad, like maybe Crowley had forgotten something important, the way you look at a friend who's forgotten he was meant to meet you for lunch and hasn't yet realized his mistake--felt achingly and disturbingly familiar in a way Crowley couldn't quite shake, well. That only added to the mystery, and fuel to the fire.

Part of him--a small, but nonetheless vocal part--thought that he ought to simply leave Aziraphale alone. If nothing else, whatever fancy had brought him here would eventually pass and he'd grow bored, or surely he had responsibilities elsewhere that would need attending to eventually, and then he would be gone, and Crowley would never see him again. Best not to get overly attached, no matter how interesting the mystery was, or handsome the object of his interest might be.

Still, the inevitable season's end came all too soon, and with no wisteria left to take to the market, Crowley found himself inexplicably filled with... _something_ at the thought of having no excuse to see Aziraphale again. Dread? Was that what this odd, churning feeling was? They barely knew each other. It shouldn't matter so much. 

He didn't need to go to the market that week. He had nothing to offer. But Aziraphale was there as he always was, as he'd hoped he would be, and Crowley told him, regretfully, that there were no more flowers for the season, but that he was welcome to come share a cup of wine of an evening, if he'd like. And Aziraphale smiled, a moment of relief and surprise that was gone so quickly Crowley thought he only saw the reflection of his own feelings as Aziraphale agreed. 

"I would like that very much, my dear," he said quietly, and something settled deep in Crowley's chest.

* * *

_Copenhagen, 1735_

When Crowley awoke, it was to the sort of headache one got from sleeping far too long, even though the light in his bedroom suggested it was barely dawn. He lay in bed for a little longer, trying to catch on to what felt like the last whispers of a dream before they faded. At last, he sighed and pushed himself upright. It was early still, but Crowley felt as though he'd spent quite enough time in bed, though trying to fully recall the night before mostly seemed to make his headache worse.

With a groan, Crowley finally forced himself out of bed. Headache and slightly sleep-addled state aside, his body felt lighter than it had in... well, he wasn't quite sure how long, to be quite honest. Not since at least... not since... 

He shook his head, trying to clear it. He'd been abed too long, Crowley thought. He wasn't sure, now, what precisely had possessed him the last few weeks, only that it had hung over him like a shadow (but no... that didn't quite feel right) and now that it had finally lifted... he needed to get on with things. There was work to be done. He had worked too long and too hard to let it all fall to pieces over... over...

Crowley turned toward the wash basin in the corner of his bedchamber, gratified to see that, whatever had been going through his head as of late, he'd at least apparently had the forethought to fill the pitcher with water before going to bed. A splash of cold water felt very much needed at the moment.

* * *

_London, 1824_

Crowley nearly dropped his key in his effort to unlock the bookshop's door. He leaned against the door frame as a fit of coughing took him again-- _not so bad this time,_ he told himself as it faded, though he still trembled despite the warmth of his overcoat. Eventually, he peeled himself away from the door enough to get it open and let himself inside.

He shouldn't be here. He should be at home, in bed, and not only because it was already quite late. He was ill. Had been for a bit now, with no real sign of being on the mend soon, and Crowley had made it through this particular influenza outbreak long enough to watch friends and neighbors succumb and know he was in a very bad way indeed. Crowley liked to think of himself as an optimistic person, generally. It had served him well in performing. It had served him well in his relationship with Ezra Fell--that bright beginning, their years together despite the odds, moving to England to pursue his lover's dreams, and even now, separated for so long, Crowley clung to the thought that Ezra would be back one day. He'd _promised._

The shop had remained closed since Ezra left, but Crowley still came here frequently. Usually at night, when he missed the man most dearly. He'd light as many candles as he dared, wary of the potential danger to the books, precious to him because of how much they meant to the man he loved. Here in the bookshop, more even than in the home they shared, Crowley felt as though he could feel Ezra there with him still. As if when he sat down at the piano, all Crowley need do would be to play a few opening notes, perhaps to one of his favorites, before Ezra would emerge from wherever he'd sequestered himself, spectacles perched on his nose, book in hand. 

Their life together had felt like a fairy tale. There was always something that felt a little magical, a little impossible. Crowley tried not to question it, because he was afraid that questioning it would break the illusion, and it would all fall down around him. 

And Crowley had _so many_ questions. Ezra had secrets, and Crowley had determined early on that the price for keeping him in his life was leaving those secrets be. He regretted it now. It _ate_ at him now. He lay awake at night thinking over all the times Ezra would disappear for an afternoon or a day or two, telling Crowley he had some business to take care of. (What were those too-white envelopes he received? Who sent them? What did they say?) He thought of how sometimes, often when he thought Crowley wasn't paying attention, he'd catch Ezra looking at him so... so... _lost._ Like they were already separated by an impossible distance instead of simply the span of their sitting room. 

Crowley wondered sometimes if perhaps Ezra had a secret family somewhere--a wife, perhaps children--whom he'd left behind somewhere. That perhaps that was the reason for his absences. Even as Crowley thought it, he knew he didn't believe it. Even standing there in the bookshop, in the evidence of his abandonment (no, no, he _promised,)_ he knew that whoever else Ezra Fell was, and whatever he may have kept from him, Crowley was certain that he wasn't the sort of man who could do that.

The stool was where he'd left it the last time, positioned at the perfect distance from the pedals for his feet to reach when he sat down, as he did now. This was good, because having gotten himself to Soho, and inside the shop, Crowley wasn't sure he had the strength left to be moving furniture around if he wanted even a prayer of getting home again. He still had to lift the lid over the keys--he couldn't have the dust that permeated every other part of the shop now after so many years of little use get to his piano, too. The books would survive. They had to. For Ezra. 

Crowley reached into the inside pocket of his coat--he had not taken it off, despite being out of the winter chill--and pulled from it a folded piece of paper. He carefully unfolded it and smoothed out its crinkles before setting it on top of the piano, as if it were a piece of music he were about to play. It was Ezra's latest letter, arrived by post just that morning. Already, Crowley had read it twice through and gone back again to reread specific bits, and the pages were already creased and fragile. 

He sat there for a long time, his eyes closed, fingers poised on the keys, not sure what he was going to play, not even sure if he _would_. He had so little energy of late. Even now his breaths sounded too shallow, his skin felt too warm, and still his body shivered as though the icy wind outside could reach him in here. 

When his hands moved, it was almost of their own volition, and it was a moment before he recognized it. One of Beethoven's, he thought with a small, sad smile. He had played this that first night, the first time he'd seen Ezra. He hadn't spoken to him then, hadn't gotten up the courage for a few weeks yet, but Crowley remembered distinctly that first night, that first sight of the handsome Englishman with the white blonde curls and the blue eyes who seemed as fixated by Crowley as Crowley was by him. And then it had all felt so _easy,_ like they had known each other for years, for decades, falling in love was the easiest thing that had ever happened to Crowley, it wasn't like _falling_ it was like _looking up_ and seeing where he was for the first time.

Crowley didn't realize he was crying at first. He didn't notice, but then he _did,_ and then he was _sobbing_ , which turned very quickly into coughing, until that finally subsided, too, and Crowley slouched, exhausted, with his head pressed against the wood of the piano, drawing in shallow breaths. He thought he might be dying. He didn't want to die. Mostly, he just wanted the pain to stop. Always, he wanted Ezra. 

Eventually, he sat up again and began playing something different. A newer composition he'd learned, one he'd never gotten to play for Ezra, but one Crowley thought he'd like. One he thought he might play for him one day. That probably wouldn't happen now. But still he played. Even in the bleakest moments, when it was the hardest to hold on to hope, Crowley had still found some form of solace here in this bookshop, and if this was all he would ever have--this space where his only companions were the music and the ghost of Ezra's memory--then it would have to be enough. It had to be. So he played.

* * *

_South Carolina, 1863_

The image lingered with Crowley far longer than it ought to have for how brief it was. A flash of white blond hair in a crowd. That unshakable feeling of being watched. For awhile after, Crowley found himself thinking back to that image, to that feeling, found himself searching crowds for familiar curls. But he didn't see them again.

* * *

_Algarve, 1897_

It was such a brief thing. Such a brief, fleeting moment as Crowley crossed his bedchamber to turn down the lantern before bed. He paused to gaze briefly out the window and hesitated, his hand hovering a moment over the lantern, a strange feeling like he's forgotten something, or like there's something he needs to do coming over him. He shook his head, and turned out the light.

* * *

_Ypres, 1917_

The last thing Crowley saw--the very last image that was imprinted on the backs of his eyelids as they closed for the very last time--was the image of a man. A beautiful man with white blonde curls and the bluest eyes, crying over him. Crowley wanted to reach out to touch him, thought so hard about it that for a moment he thought he had found the strength to move his arm to do it, but instead he was just being lifted up into the man's arms, was being held, and then his eyes were closing, and for a brief moment, Crowley thought he saw the outline of wings.

* * *

_London, 1967_

"I'm sorry," the doctor had told him. "There's nothing more we can do."

The saddest part--if such a thing could even be quantified--was that Crowley couldn't even find it in himself to be surprised. He'd been to so many doctors now. So many treatments. He was so tired, truly, he wasn't sure how much more he could have taken even if there were options left to consider. At this point, the end almost hurt less than hope had. 

Still. He would have liked the choice. 

"Is there anyone we can call for you?" they'd asked him. _You shouldn't be alone._

Crowley was used to being alone by now. No partner, no real friends who could be called on for things as dire as _terminal illnesses_ and _six months to live_ \--if he was lucky. No family that hadn't written him off long ago. He'd worked so hard his entire life for everything he had, and here at the end of it, there really was nothing to show for it. 

He didn't go home right away. He wasn't ready to go home. Going home felt like admitting defeat, like accepting the inevitable, of lying down and taking what the universe had decided to hand him this time. Once he went home, that would be it. He'd have to start truly facing it and handling it, and... doing whatever it was you did when you knew you were dying. He should probably call a lawyer. Not that he had much to leave anyone, or much of anyone to leave anything to. 

He hadn't meant to end up in Soho. Crowley didn't remember what sequence of decisions had taken him here, but somehow, he found himself on a familiar street corner, looking up at a familiar bookshop, and he could not find it in himself to be surprised.

 _Technically_ he hadn't been back since the war. Crowley could tell when he wasn't wanted. He'd spent enough time agonizing over his brief interactions with the Soho bookseller, trying to figure out just where he'd gone wrong, just where he'd overstepped or pushed a little too hard or been subconsciously too _obvious._ He must have been. Or Mr. Fell had seen in Crowley whatever it was that so many others seemed to see, whatever made them turn away and choose to seek company elsewhere.

But he'd dreamed of this shop. Dreamed of its bookseller. Strange, confusing dreams that always left Crowley with an ache in his chest, a feeling like he'd lost something so _dear_ that he could never recover. Absurd. Insane. Maybe this was his problem. Maybe he couldn't manage real relationships because he was too consumed by the imaginary one in his dreams with a man who hadn't even wanted to continue an _acquaintanceship_ with him.

Crowley stood outside the shop for far too long, debating going inside. It probably didn't matter. He probably didn't even remember him. He might not even still own the shop--it had been _decades,_ maybe he'd retired and sold the shop. Maybe he'd passed it on to someone else, a relative, maybe, who'd kept the same name. Of course, by that logic, it wouldn't matter if Crowley walked in now. He'd just be another customer. 

Drawing in a deep breath, Crowley pushed open the shop door and then stopped, just inside. For a moment his breath caught in his throat, that decades old ache in his chest flaring to life with a vengeance.

Unchanged. Like he'd stepped straight from Crowley's memory into the front of this bookshop. 

And then he looked up. He looked up and saw him, and something unfurled in Crowley's chest and it felt like he could breathe again for the first time in a long time. 

_There you are._

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from [this](https://en.wikisource.org/wiki/Exhilaration_is_the_Breeze) Emily Dickinson poem. I couldn't pick a satisfying enough snippet to quote without quoting the whole thing, so I am linking it instead.


End file.
